I sat around Irkutsk for the next few days and spent a good bit of time reading my mate Kester Brewin’s new book ‘Other’ and listening to the new Arcade Fire album ‘Suburbs’. Around this I was visiting the toilet about every 15 minutes, and wondering how I could possibly have anything left in me. It turns out I didn’t, I was just shedding body weight…quickly. Things did begin to pick up though and I did start to feel considerably better. On the 8th August, Tatiana, my most gracious and generous host, wanted to take me to Listvyanka on the west side of Lake Baikal. It’s a bit of a tourist resort around 60kms from Irkutsk, but was well worth the ride out. We bought a couple of beers, ate Omul (smoked fish out of Baikal), sat in the sun, and chatted to some locals. When it was time to turn back, we stopped off at her parent’s Dacha where her mum had just made fresh Borsch from vegetables in their vast allotment while her granpa was making a massive pot of blackberry jam. I admired the simplicity and purity of their life out here. When not working, the whole family drive a few miles into the country to their Dacha, where they sit around in the Banja (sauna), and eat their own grown food around the table together.

Tatiana at Baikal

enjoying the end of the siberian summer sun

Kris and Gesa eventually arrived at Tatiana’s. It was great to see them again as it felt like so much had happened since we parted ways half way through Mongolia. After all of the gear was brought up to the apartment, we got dinner on the go, had a few beers, and caught up on everything. We spent a few days hanging out around Irkutsk and did very little but eat, wash clothes, and laugh. One evening, Tatiana took me to the Banja at the dacha. She got the fire in it going and some friends arrived. It was an interesting experience and one I’d definitely repeat. You put on a little felt hat (to protect your head allegedly, as the heat is so intense) and go into the hot room. You’re then to lie on the bench and someone beats you with wet Birch leaves. I had no idea what the purpose of this ritual was, but it does leave you feeling like you could take on the world. Tatiana and Sergei took turns to whip me with the branches and it was all a little ridiculous. I was thinking, ‘if only my mates back home could see me wearing this ridiculous felt hat and enduring such flagellation!’.

After several days recuperating and recharging at Tatiana’s, it was time to get on the road. We knew that it was going to be a fairly mind-numbing trek to Moscow, along straight, flat tarmac with nothing but Birch forests to look at. Since she was out at work and didn’t know we were going to be leaving this morning, we wrote a letter and left Tatiana some gifts, so that she wouldn’t be too disappointed to return and find the smelly bikers had departed.

In the evening we’d be camping and we didn’t really want to waste time by having to dive into various towns for food stops etc, so we went to a supermarket and bought as much stuff as would fit on the bikes. The long trek west of 5000kms to Moscow began. On the way out of Irkutsk I stopped at a few car mechanic places to try and get some chain lube. I’d been running it dry since early Mongolia as the oil and sand creates an emulsion which just trashes your sprockets and chain, but now with long straight road, I was in desperate need of some. I had no joy anywhere.

got any chain lube fella?

About 70kms later, I was gearing down from 6th gear, and things were not well with Pietro. I pulled in at the side of the road and blew the horn to K&G in front to do the same. I knew the clutch had gone. With 37,000 on the bike and much of that off-road, it was about time. To confirm my hunch, I phoned Alan at Hursts in Belfast who on speaking to one of his techs, said, ‘yup, your clutch is shot, you’ll be needing a new one’. I got him to hold off on posting one to see if I could find a new one in Russia. In the meantime, I needed to get the bike back to Irkutsk. Not having roadside recovery for Siberia, I called Tatiana who had arrived home from work by this point and was saddened by our leaving. I told her what had happened, and asked if she could arrange a recovery truck. A little while later she called back to say it was far too expensive and that she’d drive out. To be honest, I didn’t see what that’d achieve given she drove a little Toyota and there was no way we could tow the bike or get it into her boot. Nevertheless, I had come to understand Tatiana as being beyond capable, so it was just a waiting game to see what she’d magic up.

on the phone to Hursts

nothing to do but wait.

I was up early as yet again, I hadn’t really slept well. The sun was arcing into the sky and it looked set to be a beautiful day, so as everyone arose, so did the optimism. Sami was singing ‘Back in the USSR, don’t know how lucky you are…’ and everyone seemed glad to be homeward bound. We did the usual stove fire up for teas, coffees, porridge and whatever else, and then ablutions, and hit the road. From the outset, today seemed like it would be a feast for the motorbike rider, from the stunning Siberian wilderness, to the twists in the roads. I rode most of the way to Ulan-Ude on my own because the guys seemed to be doing a bit of faffing around with something or other, and I have to say, that feeling of not having to look out for someone or hang around, brought back the feeling of freedom you get when it’s just you and the road.

When I reached Ulan-Ude, I saw the sign for Chita and Irkutsk. As I contemplated this trip, I seriously considered heading to Magadan, and this filter lane to Chita would spell the beginning of that long section. While I was still somewhat tempted on this beautiful day, my budget, my guts and wrist, and the state of the bike kept me firmly on the road to Irkutsk. In addition, I didn’t see the point in riding to Magadan if you weren’t then shipping to Japan or the US. It would be a long ride home and with all the Kamaz trucks building the new federal highways in high Siberia, it was a fight I didn’t want to pick. Magadan can wait

So I kept on the bypass around Ulan-Ude and stopped at what looked like a fast-food truck stop kind of cafe. It was closed, so I jumped back in the saddle and was stopped at a Police checkpoint. ‘Documente, passport, motorcycle passport’ was barked at me. Seriously, how did this tulip think I had got this far, on my charm and wit alone? These guys are like robots, they’re switched on in the morning and go through the same old mechanised routines daily. As I was finishing up with him, Toumas and Pauli pulled up beside me. Since I’d done the dirty work, they were signalled straight through. And so cue the fun and frolics of South Baikal. This was a hoot. It was like the north coast road of Ireland stretched over 200 kms. The bends and switchbacks just kept coming. The only thing you had to be careful of was the occasional wrongly cambered corner or green tarmac, but on the whole it was riding paradise. In fact, I’m going to dedicate today’s ride to Richard McVicker from Ballymoney. Richard was paralysed after a very bad bike accident in Ballymoney 2 years ago when someone drove out on him. That he survived at all is a miracle. I was working when the news came in that a few streets away, there’d been a bad bike accident involving a local fella. Shortly afterwards I found out it was Richard and it was touch and go as to whether he’d make it. Suffice it to say, he’s wheel chair bound and paralysed from the waist down…for now;-) but still being a brilliant father, son, husband and inspiration. Anyway fella, this one was for you!

This road needed full attention, but it was difficult to give it that when you were riding the side of Lake Baikal. This lake is the deepest in the world owing to the fact that it sits between two tectonic plates, and yet is only 30-40 kms wide. Its water is so pure that you can drink it, and it freezes over in depths of feet in the Winter with completely transparent ice. I’ve seen photos, but someday would like to witness this steel ice myself. Separating us from the lake were the tracks of the Trans-Siberian railway, and often a huge Russian train would rumble along beside you. We got very up close and personal with these tracks because at the very southern tip of the lake there’s a railway crossing, but there was a traffic queue of about 2 miles leading to it. We didn’t know what was going on, and knew that while Russian freight trains are large, they don’t take so long as to cause a 2 mile traffic tail-back. Being on bikes we filtered to the front of the queue, and could see a big crowd of railway workers and various bits of machinery obviously dedicated to laying new tracks etc. I got speaking to a lass who had some English and she stated that they were replacing 1 km of track. ‘How long will this take’, I asked, ’6-7 hours I think’. We all gasped at this and then began wondering if it might be possible to ride the bikes over. Tuomas got the bit between his teeth and I could tell he wouldn’t rest until we were on the other side. When the repairing carriage had gone over and there was some space, he grabbed some planks to lay across the tracks. Some of the officals started shouting and the berated Tuomas backed down. 10 mins later after some more machinery passed, the same officials we building bridges over for us. Civilians and railway workers alike all gathered around to cheer and help. Tuomas shouted, ‘Simon, you go first’, and so with apparently no option, I ‘dropped in’ and with a few heaves and pulls from the workers, eventually got across. The others followed suit, and the cheers went up from all the workers for the welcome distraction of fixing the tracks. Meanwhile, car drivers looked on jealously!

railway workers

new track being laid

getting Pauli across. we all rode away thinking 'you have just got to love this country...only in Russia!'. Health and safety are concept not yet invented in this part of the world...they ought to make the most of it while they can.

Lake Baikal from the south end

Sami. Less than a day's ride into Siberia from Mongolia, and everything is different

We pressed on to Irkutsk with me and Tuomas reaching it first. I was couchsurfing there and the others were going to try and find a biker bar and some cheap accomodation. As Tuomas and I waited at the side of the road for what seemed like an hour for the others, a very kind random lady had bought us a huge watermelon and a bottle of water. Quite how she thought we were to transport this colossal fruit on a motorbike I’ve no idea. I needed to be at my Couchsurfing hosts place, so I flagged a taxi, threw the watermelon in the back and told him to drive me to Pervomaiski. I would catch up with the boys later. As it happened, later Sami had flagged down a local biker who was no help at all and decided that they’d ride through the city and find somewhere to camp out the other side. This would be the last I’d see of them, and sadly didn’t get a chance to say farewells. My plan was to sit tight in Irkutsk, shake off this lingering tummy problem and wait for Kristian and Gesa who were on their way up from UB.

We tried to get up early and hit the road, but as Hubert says, we’re worse than women to get out in the morning. I think it’s because we’ve achieved what we set out to do, and now everyone is in lazy mode, knowing that it’s a pretty dull and long run home.

Eventually we got squared up and packed up, and took off back through the hole that is UB. I would’ve taken photos, but I didn’t want to ruin your day. Having back-tracked around 10 kms through traffic, we took the road north to Darhan, which would then lead us to Altanbulag and the delights of yet another Russian border. It was rather inclement and the guys all stopped to put on their rain gear. Seeing the temperature drop and not needing rain gear, I thought I’d join the party and put my heated vest on for the craic. I wasn’t especially cold, but I figured that since I’d brought it, I might as well use it. I’m glad I did, for it dropped to 5 degrees; the coldest temperature thus far on the trip. After some 400kms we made the border. Believe it or not, I got through the whole process from Mongolian exit to Russian entry in exactly one hour. This goes down as the fastest border crossing to date, with the most pleasant and efficient officials too. Once across, we stopped at the next town, fuelled up, got some food for the camp, and then pulled off the road 30kms later in a nice little secluded spot in the woods. We sat around reminiscing and I continued to experience a weird stomach. I didn’t take the full course of Cyproxin as I only had 2 days as opposed to the 3 days, so I wondered was this responsible. I knew one thing, I needed to eat. I think I’ve already lost about 7 or 8 kgs on this trip and with this gut issue, each day saw me getting closer to the gulags, in more ways than one. Tuomas had brought about a 15 of these pukka dehydrated camping meals at over 8 euros a pop. Given I had to eat something and I didn’t want to cook anything, I bought one of these gourmet dry packs off of him. Perhaps foolishly, I took the chilli con carne, and it gave me a sleepless night. Note to anyone coming this way, invest in about 10 of these meals and reserve them for Mongolia, you’ll be glad you did!

At 5:30 I still hadn’t slept as my stomach was doing somersaults. Knowing that it was 10:30 at home and she’d be up, I texted Siobhan, a doctor friend who had put together one of the medical kits for me and told her I was confused as I had a very sick stomach but no sign of the runs. She told me to start on the Ciproxin anti-biotics she’d given me which is best for bad diahorrea etc. I went out to the bike, saw Hubert still sitting in the cafe at his computer (where he stayed until midday the next day!), fetched the tablets, took one, and tried to sleep for an hour or two. I attempted some breakfast and then sat in the cafe catching up on the internet. I was sitting with the guys when all of a sudden I jumped up from the table and made for the nearest toilet. I was so glad I had some ceramic to sit on and not one of those ski-jump wooden boxes with a hole in some 2×4′s they prefer here. On that ceramic, everything became clear. I had food poisoning. As though further clarification was needed, I went to the Ger 1 hour later, then spent quite some time throwing up. Oh the relief. I knew this was going to be the road to recovery. The irony was that I’d longed for some pasta, a burger or something resembling home cuisine for weeks now, and now that I’ve finally arrived in a place that had a menu I could understand and enjoy, I couldn’t eat any of it!

the holy grail - the medical kit with the ciproxin

We met a lot of travellers, in overland vehicles and bikes. Oasis is a great set up. It began when Rene and Sybille went out to Mongolia 15 years ago to work with Help International Christian Mission. Since then, they’ve started this sustainable business model which gives locals employment and it opens its services beyond tourists like me, but showers, launderette, hairdressing salon etc, to locals. I was very impressed and it’s definitely the place to stay if you visit Ulaan Baatar.

back of the Oasis guest house

Rene and Sybille

It must’ve been a combination of worry and pain which kept me awake last night, for sleep eluded me. I was dropping Nurofen Forte’s like Jacko and I may as well have sat there whistling dixie. It wasn’t long before I could hear Sami scratching around the Ger. He said he was getting cold, and to be fair, when the little stove in the centre went out, they weren’t a warm place to sleep. It was now obvious why Mongols live on a diet of fat lardons, for it was a good 40 degrees higher than what they’d be getting in a few months time. Sami tried to light the fire, as I looked on, as good as useless. Which was more to the pity, because he was making a real ham-fisted effort at lighting it. I then rummaged around in my bag and threw out a toilet roll, which he soon got to work on. When that had burned through without the wood catching, I threw him all my duplicate documents from my tank bag, when that didn’t work, he burned his duplicates. For just a moment I longed to be back home for the 12th July, when northern Ireland shows the rest of the world what a fire is really all about. Actually I didn’t, I hate the 12th celebrations and Mongolia was sufficiently far enough away for me to forget about them.

Anyway, Sami eventually pulled on all of his training in the Finnish army, and got enough of a fire going to heat a small marmot. He then went to sleep, leaving me to ponder my canine induced afflictions.

Sami and the fire that wouldn't light

It was a beautiful morning. I had looked forward to a shower, as it had been a good few days since my last ablutions and as I couldn’t ride today, I fancied at least sitting around in a state of moderate cleanliness. We were told that the hot water wouldn’t be on until 5pm. Unhappy, and watching my hand swell by the hour, we set to work on the bike. Tuomas and Pauli took off what was left of the engine bars, straightened the front wheel, yokes, and handle bars, and put in new rear brake bads. There was nothing that could be done about the blow out, so Pietro not only looked like he’d been in the war, but sounded like he’d been dropped out of an airplane at high altitude.

After the necessary repairs were completed, Sami, Pauli and I trekked up a hill, relaxed in the sun, did some laundry, and read. Dinner that night was Yak meat, and was very very good. We had a couple of beers, looked back through photos on my netbook and had a good laugh at some of our situations. Much of it seemed so long ago and so many miles ago. It was time to turn in for another night in our Ger’s. We hoped that my wrist was up to the job of clutching tomorrow. As for holding the bike up if it started to go down, it no longer mattered.

taking off the wrecked adventure-spec engine bars

these did more damage than if i hadn't had them i think

back on with the handle bars

still not right

several hours later...

that's our tourist Ger camp down behind Pauli

that's a young 18,000 year old volcano on the right, with the crater in the top

that's Sami doing his best Beavis impression with the lower mandible of some animal

one of the kids belonging to some staff at the Ger camp

After a breakfast of tinned fish, pickles and nescafe, which I’d now no option but to like, we packed up and rode east…again. This time we were bound for Tsontsongel. I think today was affording me some of the prettiest scenery I’d come across. The valley’s were so fertile and verdant, with rivers running through, forests, group of Ger’s surrounded by livestock, and people riding horses everywhere. Every moment I was stopping to take photos, so decided that this was getting me nowhere and that I needed to ride.

When we got to Tsontsongel, we stopped for some food. Some ladies outside the cafe were clearly taken by the black lambs wool on my saddle. They kept rubbing it and chatting among themselves. I made the sound of a sheep and said ‘Irlandia’, which they thought this was hilarious. Now, Sami had been wanting one of these saddle accessories for some time, for they keep you cool in the heat and warm in the cool, and a Mongolian fleece would be a nice souvenir. After all, wool (camel, yak or whatever) is one of their main exports. Thus, he tried to make his desires known these women. One of them called over a bloke who sped off on his little motorbike. Moments later he pulled up with a white canvas bag. Would this be Sami’s lucky day? Out of it came this massive fur coat, which I can only presume is the sort of thing these folks wear when it gets to -45 in the winter. The price was equivalent to $50 which was a steal for this authentic fur, so I told sami to buy the coat, cut the bottom off for his seat and donate the rest to the poorest looking punter in the assembled throng of onlookers. Sami felt this wasn’t the best course of action, so I tried the coat on, much to the amusement of all.

We left Tsontsongel on the right road, but Tuomas didn’t think it was. We spent the next hour taking various tracks out of the place, but ended up back on the first one we’d chosen. When you’re trying to cover ground, this feels like a colossal waste of time. How and ever, we were one the track now, and the scenery just kept getting better. Before long 2 Polish lads on African Twins, riding from Vladivostok pitched up in front of us. I can’t remember their names, but they were good boys. After some banter, we moved on and started climbing higher. After passing through countryside which looked particularly ‘Flintstone-esque’ we got to 2600m. This peak hosted the biggest prayer shrine we’d seen to date. There were a few people gathered at it and a woman was sprinkling vodka over it, while someone else was putting money under a stone at it. Reverently, and with Pauli’s help, I placed my final ‘awayfromhere.org’ sticker high up on the sign close to it. I got this old Mongol gent to point to it for comedy purposes. If you manage to reach this point at these GPS co-ords (coming soon) and take a photo with the sticker, I’ll buy you a beer!

Polish riders

a birds-eye view of Tosontsengel

our waitress at the cafe

touching up my sheep

i really should have bought it

horse riding

a local rider, as Pauli the map king consults a local for directions in the background...who, like most Mongolians, has no idea what a map is

tree climbing goats

break time

sami (tirpse) and tuomas

riding

leaving my mark

he found it, so he gets a beer

shrine

pauli

Sami

Again, we moved on. Our destination was ‘The White Lake’. We’d heard that the water was so pure that you could drink it and that it was set in a splendid valley with one or two Tourist Ger camps. It was unfortunate that you had to negotiate the worst road in Mongolia to get there. It was a road of sorts, as opposed to just a track, which are often easier to ride. It was host to pot holes my height deep, so you could do yourself some real damage. All of us, trying to nurse our bikes through this minefield, fearing for our rear shocks, got to the end of the lake and could see what we thought were the Ger camps. We noticed a couple of Western girls sitting by their tent with 2 Mongol chaps. So, we pulled over to find out their story. They were French and were hitchhiking and walking across Mongolia. Their 2 friends were a little behind and if we found them we were to instruct them as to where they were. The guys pulled away first as I finished practicing my French. Two mins later I was after them. .

Sadly, misfortune was about to befall me. As I was riding this track and doing 50-60 mph, this dog started running alongside me. This wasn’t an unusual situation because it happens out here with great regularity. I’d already given one dog a taste of my boot about 3 days ago. All of a sudden I became fearful of this dog and having no back brake after realising earlier in the day that the pads were really shot and the brakes were down to metal on metal (I was going to change them at the Ger camp that evening), I didn’t want to anchor up on the front brakes on this stoney gravel road, so I blipped the throttle to leave the dog in my rear view mirrors. I knew instantly that it was confused and in a fraction of a second, it pulled out in front of me causing me to hit it full tilt. There was no way I was holding the bike up, and I, with it, went down hard and slid up the road. I recall my head hitting the deck and the next thing standing up and seeing two Mongol lads approaching me on a motorbike with mine lying upside down on the road. I knew this wasn’t good. I looked around for the dog and saw it yelping up the road hobbling. If I hadn’t broken its back, I’d certainly broken ribs and most likely punctured its lungs, leaving it maybe an hour to live. I was all out of sympathy after its foolishness.

The Mongol guys were keen to get my bike up, but I was in a fit of rage kicking a post at the edge of the track. I realised that it was a precipice leading down to the river, so it was good I was on the right side of it, if indeed there was anything good about this situation. Eventually, we righted the bike and I knew that it was poorly. I was aware of pain in both wrists, but a quick inspection revealed nothing severe. Truly, I was more concerned about Pietro. His binnacle and screen had nearly been ripped off, and the engine bars on the right side were contorted into the most bizarre shape. ‘This is the end of away from here’, I thought. I tried calling the boys to get them to back up to me, but couldn’t get through. 3 mins later Sami rode up and saw the mess. He got me a bottle of water from his bike and told me to sit at the side of the road while he checked out Pietro. His recommendation was that we could cable tie the binnacle together and if the bike started, it might yet be rideable. Tuomas arrived and sawed off the remains of the engine bars on the right side. I was sad; Pietro my trusty steed was badly injured.

I managed to get on the bike, started it, and discovered that it sounded like a bag of bolts. Something was wrong, but diagnostics would be reserved until we hit our lodgings for the night. I and the bike, limped the few kms into the tourist camp, where our hosts took my stuff off the bike as my wrists were too sore to do anything. We were taken to our two two person Gers that had the stoves lit and were very cosy. Under normal circumstances I would’ve loved this, but my mind was elsewhere. As I attempted to ride back to the camp I was rehearsing the incident in my mind. I was also going through a battery of diagnostics on the bike as I listened for the slightest noise which might indicate a fault. It was already clear that the engine bars cross bar had bounced back and hit one of the header pipes. Pietro’s new found flatulence was because the header pipe had been separated from the engine block, causing it to blow out. On top of this, I would be a mirror down for the rest of the trip, a creak in my neck up from the angle of the instruments, and sore from turbulence owing to the screen no longer working. The handlebars were pointing all directions, and my bags now had a few holes in them. As for me, I hadn’t spilled any blood, but the wrists kept getting more painful, and the left one began to balloon, discolour and feel like it was on fire. I remembered the same thing happening when I broke my wrist snowboarding a few years ago. At the time, I didn’t know it was broken, and plied it with deep heat and went back up the mountain the following day. Sick of the persistent clicking, 18 months later my sister forced me into her work for an x-ray. The doctor then looked at me like I had had a frontal lobotomy and said that my wrist had been broken in 3 places…18 months ago and what did I expect him to do now? Long story short, I suspected that I’d fractured one of the bones in my wrist, as I couldn’t rotate my hand at all, but a cast was the last thing I’d need, because as long as Pietro could still ride, then so must I!

This entry was written about 3 days later as I couldn’t type.

moments before my spill

moments after my spill

our Ger

trying to sort my wrist

gotta keep laughing though

I was awoken early at 6 by footsteps and mens voices approaching my tent. Wondering if Genghis Khan’s marauding and invading progeny had spotted me and were going to pillage my meager belongings, I poked my head out of the tent to see what the craic was. Three smiling Mongol men were coming towards me. Regrettably, they seemed fascinated by my situation. After wondering how they found me up in my little nook, and watching them circle my bike through a very partially opened tent door, I quickly threw on some more clothes so that I could get out and verify that they meant me no harm.

Once the easy bit was done and my clothes were on, in what was necessarily a very short series of steps in cognitive processing, I quickly realised that I had a sum total of no Mongol language. Still, I thought, in spite of my normally trusting posture towards newcomers, it should be somewhat obvious if they want to cut off my head.

I remembered whilst at seminary, studying Missiology under a certain Lish Eves, that having lived in Indonesia for many years, she learned that blending into the indigenous ways of life – technically known as ‘inculturation’ – was of paramount importance in the process of acceptance. So, in order to diffuse a potentially hostile approach, I thought that either chai or vodka would be my suitable attempt at practicing the native hospitality. Again, I thought quickly, or rather my tastebuds thought quickly, and rejected the 6:01am (you see, I was thinking very quickly) vodka option, which was just as well, as I didn’t have any. I put the stove on to brew some tea and just as I was about to get smug with my improvised ambassadorial efforts in international relations, I realised that I had enough water for 4 very small cups, but alas, I didn’t have 4 cups! Surely this wasn’t my own petard from which I’d be hoisted. How would their chai drinking mores cope with this offence?

Very quickly, the chai became of secondary importance. Their constant up and downward motion with both hands together, suggested one of three things; either they were in need of one of those devices that Wiley Coyote used to explode dynamite in a bid to terminate Road-runner, or they needed a few space hoppers as their horses had died, or they needed a pump? Since my neural synapses were now on fire, I very very quickly eliminated the first possibility, and then, nanoseconds later, the second with it. ‘You need a pump’, I shouted victoriously, pointing at a tyre on my bike. All smiles and expectation, they confirmed my announcement. ‘No, sorry, don’t have one’, I said. This was true and not true. I didn’t have a manual pump, which strictly speaking, is what they were looking for. But I did have one better, in the form of a Slime Compressor. Call it selfish, but I didn’t want to volunteer my little compressor if these boys were wanting to pump up the tyre of a Kamaz truck. I know from the experience of others that you can burn them out blowing up a double air bed, so a truck tyre would likely end up with the same result.

Still curious as to how they were able to find me but realising that finding an answer would require more gesticulating that would probably not deliver an answer, I asked them to take me to the fallen vehicle. Surprisingly it was around the corner by a nearby Ger I hadn’t seen. It was only a Toyota Hiace and the model was, amusingly, a ‘Moto Gimp’. The rear right wheel was well deflated and showed all the signs of a slow puncture. I thought that the slime would cope with this, so I told them I’d be back in a few mins. I got back to the tent, jumped on the bike, and rode back to the waiting posse. They stood there wondering what I was about to do. With the expectation building, I pulled a white rabbit out of my helmet and everyone laughed. For my next trick I dug into the bottom of my pannier and pulled out my little black compressor box. After unravelling a few leads, I plugged it into the bike, connected it to the tyre valve, and switched it on. The looks of amazement and the chit-chat between them all was hilarious. 10 mins later the job was done and one by one, people of all ages and sizes sleepily appeared out of the Ger. What had probably happened is that this Hiace had arrived at 2 or 3 in the morning, and unable to go any further in this deep sand with such a load on a half inflated tyre, they just pulled into the Ger of this family, and found somewhere to sleep. This is the way it works here. Nice huh? Who needs motels or the AA?

After everyone had been shoe-horned into the Toyota, I was beckoned in for some breakfast. A bowl of Chai was handed to me and then a bowl with mutton and strips of some kind of bread they make. My instruction was to put the mutton/bread mix into the chai and slurp it down. It was foul, but I didn’t want to offend, so persevered.

Knowing that the guys were a bit behind me, and with various SUV’s pulling in to this Ger, I found one containing a chap who spoke moderately good english. I asked him if he had passed 3 bikes, and he said yes, about 20kms back. I knew that it would take them 30mins (on these roads) to get to me, so I sat in the Ger and watched the family get set up for the day. It was fascinating. They were so industrious and from the youngest to the oldest, everyone had a role. It appeared to me to be so ritualised that they went through these motions almost robotically every day. 8 big thermos’ of Chai were made on the stove, presumably made to refresh all the weary travellers who would pass this way today. I could go on, but I’ll spare you the details.

A couple of hours later, the boys did pitch up. I was doing some colouring in with the youngest of the family, when I heard the exhausts roar up outside. Sami then poked his head through the door and blurted ‘what’s the craic?’, a phrase I’d taught the Finnish contingency earlier in the trip. I invited them into my new family’s abode and offered them some chai. We all had a good laugh about last night’s wind and the fact Sami had to forget about his tent and just bunk down on the ground in his sleeping bag.

my little friend

this little boy's mum. two ladies and their kids and the grandfather all lived in this Ger. the husbands had died. sorry about the quality of the pic.

the little fella's cousin, with some passing travellers in the background. about 20 people had slept in this Ger last night!

'weetabix or bones?' 'weetabix please.' 'sorry we're out of weetabix'. 'so my options are "or bones" then?' not really, no weetabix on the menu here.

granps

i tried 'doing an angelina' on him, but neither he nor his mum were too happy about it. actually, i felt like i could've stayed with these people for a month if i'd wanted.

It was time to go. We sped off in the direction of Sangino and encountered some majestic scenery once again. It was like a movie, every moment it cut to a different scene, with differing back drops and new things to notice. There was a lot of deep sand today, and Sami and I put the bikes down more than once.

We got to Sangino and found a cafe which was very clean. I went into the little kitchen at the back as there was no menu, hoping I could just point at something and say, for me! The lady was preparing food and it looked great, so the 4 of us ordered 4 bowls of it. Again we watched the whole town descend upon our bikes. Well fed and in good spirits, we set out again for the rest of the day.

edible food, at last!

shopping

a random riding shot

Tonight, after a day of gruelling terrain, we’ve pulled off to the side and found a suitable place to set up camp. The sunset was glorious and as we sat there sipping beer and regaling the day, it was one of those unforgettable evenings. Off to bed. Goodnight, Mongolia, Goodnight world.

sunset...

and me watching it.

A few facts that I’ve learned about Mongolia before I get into today’s goings on.

Outer Mongolia (the country that I’m in) became a separate state from China when the Qing dynasty collapsed in 1911. Inner Mongolia was swallowed by China, even when outer Mongolia appealed to all Mongolians to unite. China put the foot down and prevented this unification. Today, most Mongolians still live in China, south of the Gobi desert. The Soviets then offered protection to Mongolia to prevent any incursions from China, and so it became swallowed by the USSR. The USSR put some money in here during the 50′s to fund industry and agriculture, but shafted Mongolia when communism collapsed in that they quite literally pulled the plug on all of Mongolia’s electricity (since it was coming from Russia). Even the capital – Ulan-Baatar – was in the dark for months.

Prior to 1992, Mongolia was pretty much closed to foreigners and in particular westerners, which is why it is great being here before the secret of its beauty is blown and before it is covered in roads and tourists (there is already evidence of heavy machinery moving into places to lay down ribbons of asphalt). 99% of the Mongolia’s land ‘belongs to the people’ and is owned by the State (if that doesn’t sound like an oxymoron to the western mind). This means that you can camp anywhere you like.

Having majored in genetics at uni, I was interested to find out that Oxford Uni conducted a study and found that 1 in 200 men alive on planet earth today, is related to Genghis Khan. Over 10 years, scientists collected blood from 16 populations in and around Mongolia and worked on the Y chromosome that shows a signature which passes from father to son. A fifth of all Mongolian men alive today carry this gene which can be traced back to the Khan. He, his brothers and senior troops, apparently had access to thousands of women, and so shortly afterwards they wrote a song about ploughing the fields and scattering, good seed on the earth.

The Mongol Empire, prior to the Manchu’s outmanoeuvering them in Risk, was the biggest empire  (geographically speaking) in history. Brutal and violent horse mounted warriors (horse riding is still massive here and they have some of the most exceptional and rarest horses in the world on these steppes) swept across the Asian steppes, and gate-crashed the European party. The Europeans had no idea what lay beyond the Ural mountains, and so these were strange looking folks that were pouring in and putting to death everything (except the hot women) that stood in their way. Being out here, it’s easy to see why we were such easy prey. Their diet and nomadic lifestyle have barely changed, bar the addition of solar panels, chinese motorcycles, black and white car battery powered TV’s, and black market premier league football tops. Athough, I believe the Great Khan himself would sport a Liverpool shell-suit when relaxing with the ladies at night in his Ger. So the point is, their diet was, and is so simple. They don’t eat fruit or vegetables, only mutton and anything that can be made out of Yak milk. Dried meat and cheese were put in a leather satchel, and they ride and they ride and they ride…west. These men are very strong; perhaps even stronger than Hulk Hogan or George W. When they got to Europe (the Mongols, not George and Hulk), our boys are all sitting around their Rayburn ranges, meticulously following Nigella’s recipe for Grilled Sea Bass, asparagus and chickpea pilaf and raita. Talk about being caught unawares? There was no time to doff the aprons and pick up their Holland and Holland revolvers for as they did so, their heads became another ingredient in Nigella’s recipe. So, they got as far as Moscow, Kracow and a few other places close to where many of you, the erstwhile readers live. Pause for a moment and consider what our history might have looked like if the marauders hadn’t gotten the email to say that a successor to Genghis was in need of election and that they all should promptly but safely do a U-turn for the occasion?

Finally, Mongolia has the most incredible night sky. This land has no light pollution. One third of its population live in the capital city, and the rest pretty much scattered across the steppes and mountains in Gers (their moveable tents). If shooting stars are your thing, then you see them on a frequency of about once a minute out here. The sky is vast and the stars are uncountable. This picture of the world by night will give you a feel for what I’m saying. Unfortunately I’m on a new computer with no software capable of writing on a jpeg, but if you look to the left of the very lit up Japan and above the lit up China, you’re into Mongolia and Siberia. It’s quite dark here…and I’ve lost my Petzl head torch